


promises to be kept

by Hydra_Trash_Gal



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst and Porn, Assassins & Hitmen, Flashbacks, Fluff, Guilt, M/M, Smut, Understanding, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydra_Trash_Gal/pseuds/Hydra_Trash_Gal
Summary: Brock Rumlow doesn’t let pleasure get in the way of business and he doesn’t apologize.





	promises to be kept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> I hope you like it!

The ultimate goal was to make a name without making a face. Brock got that down pretty quickly and his resume was built as he racked up his body count. It was thankless work, money exchanging hands for a service completed.

Brock Rumlow made himself invisible to those outside his immediate circle but those within his circle he trusted wholeheartedly because, should they betray him, he would kill them. Family names had a little to do with the respect he came by though blood didn’t lose its meaning just because it wasn’t spilled yet. Organized crime was part of his DNA but Brock had trouble with authority. He was better off working for himself, taking work as he saw fit.

It worked out because Brock was a man of his word and he always got results. 

That was why he was sitting on the balcony, far above the city, sipping champagne. Brock maintained the policy of discretion and polite obligation. When he was called upon and a name put a hit on, he didn’t ask why because it wasn’t his place and frankly, he didn’t care. Unless that name was of his own immediate family and then… 

Well, he smiled a bit to himself, then it would be interesting but the job would still get done.

That wasn’t to suggest this mark wasn’t interesting. 

Brock rose the flute to his lips, dark eyes scoring the lower balconies. Always alert, always aware Brock had been told when he first got into this line of work, a fresh faced seventeen year old with a good shot and a bloodlust, that once he started playing others would join in. Competition was high and no one would be lowering prices when it was easiest to simply kill your competitor. Twenty five with no misses was nothing to scoff at. Brock’s hands were covered in blood of those who had simply gotten in the way.

“Refill?”

Brock glanced over his shoulder to where Bucky tilted the bottle to and fro. “Sure.”

“What’s up with all the sulking.” Bucky slipped down beside him, their legs dangling over the edge. 

“I’m thinking.” Brock sipped again and rested his forehead against the cool steel. “The fuck are you doing?”

“My job.”

“Job always has to get done, no matter the cost.” Brock wasn’t sure why he let the bitterness lace is words. Maybe it was the smell of spring on the cold breeze running over his skin or the alcohol buzzing in his veins. “I figure he already knows.”

“That he’s got a hit out on him? Yeah, I’m sure he does.” Bucky agreed, clearly nervous. “He trusts you.”

Brock pulled his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and immediately a flame was presented to him. Bucky’s face light up a bit from the soft lighting behind them, nervous about overstepping or quite possibly about the job. 

Guilt by association, after all. 

“I trust him.” Brock did trust Jack Rollins, for whatever that worth. Well, actually it was worth 3.4 million American dollars and wasn’t that a pretty price for someone like Rollins. “It’ll be an easy job.”

“Jesus Christ. You’re really going to do this.” 

Barnes physically drew away from him, maybe finally aware that no one was untouchable. Finally he believed Brock when he said that the only reason he survived that bullet to chest was because he had no heart. 

“I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re friends. You’re — ”

“Don’t.” Brock snapped and Bucky’s body went taunt, a flip switched. Brock saw his left hand twitch toward his waist as if considering if he could kill Rumlow before his own time came. “Don’t bother. You can’t.”

“I wouldn’t.” Bucky’s solemn sincerity had only worsened when he met Rogers. Family values and what have you. “Because I care about you, Brock.”

“That’s a mistake.” In a second the blade of his switchblade was pressed into the soft hollow of Bucky’s throat. The man beside him went deathly still and in the low light Brock could see blood beading beneath the tip. “Never assume that just because you won’t, they won’t.”

He stowed the knife away and Bucky slowly, slowly seemed to reanimate. “But you didn’t.” Bucky didn’t sound so certain and that hollowed out the empty pit of Brock’s chest even further. “You could’ve and you didn’t. Because you care about me.”

Brock’s head was starting to hurt. “Fuck off Barnes. I’m a killer not a goddamn savage. But if you ever reach toward a weapon against me, for doing my fucking job, I will finish you. And anyone else who gets in my way. Understood?”

“Yeah, Rumlow. I understand.” 

Bucky went back inside and Brock resumed staring out at nothing. He was a killer, he wasn’t a savage. There was something satisfying about it, about the control that existed when he took down his mark. He’d had plenty of names come to him that made him doubt his own code but each one he’d fulfilled. It just further solidified how he lived his life and his own rules. 

There were no exceptions and no excuses, only results. 

There were no friends amongst monsters, just a hierarchy. The wolf only laid with a rabbit when it’s stomach was full and prey plentiful. Jack Rollins was nothing but a mark now and he devoted himself solely to that. He rose to his feet and stepped inside. The warm air rushed to meet him and Barton straightened up from where he was leaning. 

“Brock.” 

The patio doors had been open and he’d seen everything but Brock wasn’t concerned for that. Loyalty was its own contract and his foot soldiers took that seriously. Barnes inclined his head respectfully, the trickle of a blood dried against his neck. 

“Clint.” He returned. “When it arrives, go.”

“You sure? I mean… We can hang around outside for a bit.”

“When it arrives, go.” Rumlow didn’t say things for a third time and he really didn’t want to lose anyone else he may have considered with anything above tolerance. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Brock stepped beneath the water in his shower. It was too hot and his fair skin colored brightly at the pressurized blast. He let it run in his eyes as he glared at the wall. It will be an easy job, he told himself again, but he would make it intimate for the sake of their past. It was their past because the second Jack Rollins’ became a mark, Brock couldn’t think of him as anything else. 

He exhaled and cut off the water, letting the water drip down to patter against the marble tiling of his shower. Surrounding himself with something so pretty made everything within him a little less ugly. 

The package was lying on his kitchen counter, the penthouse quiet and still. The oven above the stove read two am and Brock felt restless. He cast aside the wrapping and slit open the seals on the box with the same knife he’d used on his closest ally. 

Brock Rumlow didn’t have friends. He had temporary allegiances that could be broken by two things: the right price or a betrayal. Of course he was aware that was a two way street but with that came the common understanding of ‘that’s business’. He surrounded himself with the very best that he knew he could kill before they could kill him. 

Time had taught him to always be the most dangerous person in the room and to always, always have a back up to his back up. No one and nothing was irreplaceable. They were all just pawns in a larger fucked up game but Brock was okay with that. There was always a bigger fish, always a secondary motive, always another name. 

He turned the Glock over his hands, felt its weight and inspected the piece carefully. He set it aside and picked up the SEG. His eyes flickered back to the clock and then to his work tools. He poured himself a gin and tonic and slipped out onto the balcony once more. 

With eyes scouring the city below him he hoped that Jack Rollins was getting a good night’s rest because it was the last one he would have.

•• •• •• ••

Brock Rumlow was faceless, so getting through the lobby was not an issue. 

When the elevator doors opened Brock stepped into the empty unit. It was foolish to leave your home unguarded, perhaps as foolish as wanting Jack Rollins dead. Brock poured himself a drink for the sake of causality, or so he told himself, thought the slight shake of his hand suggested nerves. 

For the past four years, on and off, Brock’s life had entwined with Jack’s. It wasn’t a commonly known fact because Brock himself wasn’t a known person. His name didn’t circulate around anyone but perspective clients and that was how it was meant to be. Business first and foremost. Jack had his own code of conduct and as far as men in positions of power go he did have a certain style to it. Jack was never one to shy away from getting his hands dirty, Brock had heard the sort of rumors that followed in his wake. 

Jack Rollins had a tight grip on the city and countless enemies but just as many people who would lay their lives down to ensure he remained in position. Rumlow wasn’t one of them. They had met, initially, when his mark also doubled as a enemy of Rollins’. He had taken down every single armed guard before the man of legends was staring down the barrel of Brock’s gun. Jack had smiled at him and put away his gun. 

Brock wasn’t a savage so he honored that unspoken agreement of surrender by lowering his own weapon. 

‘Who do you work for?’ Jack had asked him curiously, voice husky and curious. Brock had swiped blood from the corner of his mouth and responded with vicious assurance, ‘Nobody’.  
Jack later sent a hit out on him. When the person assigned was dead, Jack requested dinner in this very hotel room. 

Without the buzz of adrenaline in his veins Brock was able to put size up Rollins, reading his easy positioning as a peace offering and understanding that a job had been done. Crime bosses were known for being loyal to their own and their own alone. Brock wasn’t looking comradery but it was hard to say no to the hungry looks directed at him and the bed just a room over. Sharp wit and rough hands sealed what Brock would classify as a misstep though it had its tactical advantages now and he chalked it up to preplanning. 

He drank his whiskey sour and waited for Jack to appear. It wouldn’t have to be a fight, not if he didn’t have many people with him. He would be gone before the watchmen downstairs realized something was wrong and Jack was a capable man in his own regard. It was senseless and dangerous for someone like him to be at street level but the way Jack embraced that chance was both exhilarating and terrifying. 

Rumlow remembered wading up to him in the pool on the terrace. The way the water lapped against his hips and his body, scarred with evidence of every fight he’d been in and proof of his journey to the top, seemed to glow in the underwater lighting. Brock remembered pressing his body against him, feeling sinew stretch and work as Jack ran a wet hand appreciatively over his skin. He always felt so exposed when Jack touched him and it had nothing to do with the lack of clothing and everything to do with the way Jack stared at him eyes storming and always, always calculating. 

Brock swallowed the last of his drink and set it back on the counter. He checked the time and tensed his body in anticipation. Five more minutes. 

It was more than sex that had connected Jack Rollins to Brock Rumlow. It was more than violence. It was fated because after that initial encounter their worlds seemed to cross more and more. Sometimes Jack’s people ended up in the crosshairs but Brock always completed his job. Even when Jack wrenched his head back and bit at his collarbones hissing that the man Brock had just disposed of was his right hand, Brock couldn’t muster more than a laugh. ‘That’s the fuckin’ business ain’t it, baby?’ Brock would say and never, ever would he apologize.

The elevator doors slipped open, light spilling out from the shaft onto the floor. Brock judged the shadows heights and stepped over to fire two single shots. The second man managed a grunt before blood splattered against the wall behind him and his body slumped against the floor. Brock turned the gun on Jack who was reaching into his coat. 

“Rumlow.” Jack’s hand froze and he glanced down at the bodies. “Ever heard of a phone?”

“This isn’t pleasure, Jack.” Brock replied and tilted his head slightly. “Drink?”

“You’re the guest, shouldn’t I offer you that?” Jack stepped in and straightened his jacket. The pressed gray suit was fit expertly around his broad shoulders. “If this isn’t pleasure, I imagine it’s business.”

Brock ached to apologize but that would just further compromise an already less than ideal situation. And Brock never, ever apologized. Instead of responding he leveled his gun between Jack’s eyes and stepped forward to run a hand down his chest. The vest was solid and Jack smiled down at him. He was at a disadvantage but Brock was admittedly disappointed he wasn’t putting up a fight. 

‘Chaos,’ Jack once said, ‘is the one thing in this world I hate more than peace’. Brock had asked what he preferred, lazily cleaning his gun as they laid sprawled on disheveled sheets. ‘Control’ Jack had said immediately, a hand slipping down to grip the nape of his neck. ‘I want to watch the war but only if I sit on top’. 

Brock took his gun, unloading it and removing the bullets from the chamber with free hand before throwing the gun to the other side of the room where it fell with a soft clatter. Brock produced another hand gun and three knives from memory alone. “Creature of habit,” Jack said with a humble lowering of his eyes. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t expect me.” 

Brock needed to pull the goddamn trigger and walk away from this job. There was no reason to go through all this, to disarm a man he already had the drop on. Knowing he was stalling was just as frustrating as when Jack replied, “I was expecting you.”

Brock’s index finger twitched as he tried to bury the feelings leaping in his chest. The voice in his head that he had been muffling since he was a kid kept saying ‘no’ over and over again. Maybe this was a professional mistake. Someone would come looking for blood later and Brock would kill them and whoever came next until they finally succeeded or until Brock gave in… 

But that was the way Brock had always expected this life to end. Volatile and exciting, a bumpy ride that was careening off the cliff of Poor Choices. He had been enjoying the free fall, keeping a controlled pace, but he had to hit the bottom eventually. When he did he was determined to leave an impact and if Jack Rollins was his impact, so be it.

Why was it so fucking hard to pull the damn trigger? 

“Aren’t you going to fight this?” Brock pushed the gun against his flesh, close enough to smell the citrusy soap on his skin. 

“Brock, you and I go back a long time. I know how you work and I know that if you wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Or maybe you’re just losing your edge.” 

Jack stepped back and Brock surged forward, all instinct, and cracked him across the face with the gun. Rollins grunted in pain, left hand steadying him on the counter while the right came up to wipe at blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. It fell into the riveted skin of the scar and Brock felt his will slipping a bit. 

“So clearly you don’t accept criticism well,” Jack said looking up at him with a shuttered expression. 

“I’m gonna kill you Jackie.” Brock said because that was a certainty. He was going to kill Jack because if he didn’t do it now, he would have to later. And because Brock was a man of his word. “It’s business.”

“Business means more to you than pleasure?”

Brock fell back, barely avoiding the knife slashed where his throat had been just seconds before hand. Brock swung the gun around and Jack knocked it out his hand from the force of his forearm. Brock was cursing himself for his own stupidity, of not putting Jack down where he fucking stood as he rolled out of the way of a stab to his chest, kicking Jack’s shoulder with the heel of his foot. He felt the blow pushing it out place but he knew Jack better than to think it would even phase him. He used the momentum to roll back and dodge the next slash. His head knocked against the wall as he caught an unexpected left hook from his dislocated arm. 

Head spinning momentarily he thought it should be a crime to recover as quickly as Jack did. But being cornered was nothing but bad news for him and he gnashed his teeth together in frustration at his own misstep. He recalculated, intent on bringing Jack down as a quickly as possible.

He braced his heels against the living room walls as he grabbed Jack’s wrist, throwing his full body weight forward to push his arm back. Rollins’ face drew up in a snarl of determination as his arm was forced back, even trying to enforce it with his other arm. Brock released abruptly and the knife was buried in his shoulder, cutting through flesh and muscle and glancing off the bone. The pain was fierce and he fought to urge to curl in around it. 

Jack’s eyes widened a bit, realizing his mistep as Brock pulled out second gun and once more had Jack in control. 

“Business is business.” Brock hissed. “Now I’m gonna finish my fuckin’ job.”

Rumlow doesn’t mean to think about the time when he was asked to come over and found Jack sitting in his study, stitching up a gunshot wound to his middle, but he does. It had been the most vulnerable he had ever seen the man, numbing his pain with a bottle of vodka, eyes glassy with moisture that he didn’t let spill into his cheekbones. Brock had taken over, plenty used to tending to his own injuries after a job and once the last stitch was neatly tied had languidly kissed up Jack’s chest and along the jawline that so goddamn cut he was lucky to not split his lips on it. 

‘Why do you go on all these jobs?’ Brock had asked as he led him to the shower. 

Jack had brought the bottle to his lips as the water started to wash away the blood and sting and pull at the stitches. With a sneer he had said, ‘when the people stop seeing God, they stop fearing his wrath and they lose faith and they lose their fear of Him’. 

Brock wondered who would inherit Jack’s kingdom once his body hit the ground and then quickly cleared the thought from mind. It wasn’t his concern. 

“You’re really gonna kill me, Brock? After everything?” 

“That’s the fuckin’ business, ain’t it baby?” 

Jack laughed, soft and defeated. The place where Brock’s heart would have lived, should he have one, ached knowing that he wouldn’t be able to lay in bed with this man again and run his lips over swatches of scar tissue. There wouldn’t be anymore impromptu dinner invitations that ended up with Brock swallowing Jack’s cock down to the root while Jack gripped him and controlled his movements by his quiff of hair just slightly longer than the rest. No more staring down at the city while Jack held onto his hips, driving his cock deep inside Brock, murmuring soft words of broken English in his ear that made it clear that Jack was completely fucking undone by him. 

“I gotta make one last call.” Brock’s eyes narrowed and he ground the barrel of the gun against Jack’s forehead. “Business, Rumlow.”

Brock’s glare of determination did not lessen, even as his non-existent heart was shattering. 

“Business,” Jack said again, a bit more forcefully. “I’ll even use your phone.”

“On speaker. And you better fuckin’ thank me for this when I see you in hell.” 

One last call was a courtesy he could do. What was he going to do? No re-enforcement could arrive in time to save to his life. Even a remote detonator wouldn’t give enough time to stun Brock before he could pull the trigger. 

Jack shook his head with a dark chuckle and began to put in the number. The phone was lying between them on the floor. Two short rings and ‘Ginelli’s Dry Cleaning. Name and ID number please,” came through the speakers.

His final call was to put a hit out on whoever hit him? Or to put a hit out on Brock himself? His eyes narrowed but he would let Jack do as he wished. If he needed to ensure his death was avenged that was well within his rights and Brock had to appreciate his level mind. “Jack Rollins. 033775.”

“One moment.” There was the sound of fingers tapping over a keyboard before she picked back up, “I see you have two orders in. Would you like to add another?”

“Actually I need to close out one and assign the other.”

“Very well, Mr. Rollins. Which would you close out?”

“The hit I placed on myself, if you would be so kind.” 

Brock almost pulled the trigger right there. Jack Rollins was a fucking sadist; a prick with no regard to anyone but himself and Brock was livid. “Sending notification to assigned cleaner, one moment.” 

Because it was his phone they were using, because Jack had fucking known it would be, they saw the message appear. 

UNKNOWN: ORDER CANCELLED 

Brock bit back the tide of words resting on his tongue and considered putting the bullet in Jack’s head after this call was over. He tapped CONFIRMED and the woman picked up again to say, “Message confirmed. Who would you like to assign this order to?”

“Brock Rumlow.”

“Very well, Mr. Rollins. One moment.” 

Brock glared at Jack’s stupid smug expression until a new message popped up. He opened it fully to read the name and nearly choked. 

UNKNOWN: ANTHONY E STARK. DUE 0800 TODAY. 5 MILLION.

Brock’s fingers trembled a moment before he typed out CONFIRMED. 

“Order confirmed with cleaner. Thank you, Mr. Rollins.”

Brock ended the call and was at a loss for words as he slammed the heel of his hand against Jack’s nose as hard as possible. The cartilage gave a very satisfying, albeit sickening, crunch and blood began to run heavily down his handsome, stupid face. “Fuck!” Jack cried and Brock lurched forward, mouth pressed against his lips.

It was all tongue and Jack’s blood but fuck, Brock had never been more exhilarated than he was at that very moment. His gun was still pressing hard against Jack’s temple as he whispered, “I was gonna fuckin’ kill you, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack sounded annoyed. “Christ, did you have to bust my fucking nose?”

“You’re an asshole. I’m still considering why I shouldn’t kill you.” Brock snapped, the drunken relief fading as hot anger surged through his veins. 

And pain. Fuck, his shoulder still had a fucking switchblade in it. “I’d ‘preciate it if ya didn’t. Mind gettin’ me a fuckin’ towel there?”

Brock fingered the trigger a moment, heart racing with anger and also with relief. Brock put away the gun and reached up to support his shoulder as he rose to his feet. He filled the towel with ice and passed it over to Jack. Brock poured two whiskey sours and and ripped the knife from his shoulder, stabbing in into the counter between Jack’s index and middle fingers as he reached for a cup. Blood gushed from the wound, darkening the fabric of Brock’s black suit. 

Jack exhaled laboriously clearly unaware of what he’d put Brock through. Brock threw back the first one before saying, “You’re a fuckin’ piece, you know that?”

“Calm down Rumlow. I had to test you.”

“Test me? You’re one dumb motherfucker.” 

Brock barked out a furious laugh and threw back the second. The agony lessened just a bit as he reached for the second hotel towel that was kept folded on the counter. He pressed it against the stab wound he’d have to staple up before he left. 

“This wasn’t about the Stark hit. It was about me trusting you.”

“Trust me?” Brock shook his head furiously. “Someone puts a goddamn hit on you, that’s it. It’s my job and I’m gonna do it.”

“I know you will. I wanted to make sure of that. I’m a businessman above all else.” Jack’s voice was thick and nasally which gave Brock a bit of satisfaction but that was tainted by the heavy bleeding soaking through his towel. “I needed to be sure that had the same values as me.”

“The fuck are you goin’ on about?” Brock grunted rummaging around the drawers for the first aid kit. He dropped it on the counter and went digging. 

“You were going to kill me because your acceptance is your guarantee.” 

“I know my own code, Rollins. Do me a favor and shut the fuck up, okay? I’m still pissed at you.”

“I want you to marry me, Brock Rumlow.” 

Brock’s snort of laughter became a grunt of pain as he slipped out of his jacket and then his under shirt. He left the Kevlar vest on because it was a hassle to take off and he had to head out soon if he was going to get this new job done. 

“You’re real funny Jack. Fuckin’ hilarious.” 

Brock took the cap of the peroxide between his teeth to open the bottle. Leaning awkwardly over the sink he poured it onto the wound. He grunted out a breath of a pain, setting the bottle aside and grabbed a packet of QuikClot. He groaned as the granules fell into it but the shit was like goddamn magic. He wrapped his arm in gauze and reached for the bottle of whiskey to take the edge off of the pain. 

“My skills don’t need to be tested, Rollins. If you wanted Stark dead you didn’t need to send me on some stupid side quest first. That kind of shit gets you killed.”

“I needed to be sure our values align.” Jack shrugged casually. “I’m serious about marrying you, Brock Rumlow.”

The fight seemed to just drain out of him and the alcohol he’d consumed was left to buzz around his head leaving him feeling a bit off kilter as he echoed, “You’re serious about marrying me.”

“Yes.”

“If someone puts a hit out on you I’ll take it.” It hurt to say it but Brock wasn’t a liar unless it furthered him in a job and there was no job here anymore. “I’ll take it and I won’t be as nice as I was tonight.”

Jack laughed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from the great Brock Rumlow.”

“Then why the fuck would you marry me?”

“Because I love you. I respect the rules of business, Brock but that’s because I run the business that we do. Should my name find it’s way to you, it’s well deserved and you shouldn’t hesitate.” 

Brock scowled and ran a hand over the wrap job he’d completed. “Putting a hit out on Stark — that’s going to turn a lot of eyes on you.”

“Stark has been in the picture for too long. But I won’t bore you with my business when you have your own to attend to and a clock counting down. But first, tell me you’ll marry me.”

“Don’t underestimate me.” Brock snipped, stepping toward Jack. “I’ll give you my answer when I get back.”

“Ah so I’m expected to clean up your mess as well?” 

Brock smiled and buttoned the suit jacket over his bloodied shirt. The blood stains on his jacket weren’t very noticeable because it was black though his arm was throbbing as he replaced his guns and knives. Jack watched him quietly, leaning heavily on the counter, towel still on his nose though the bleeding had slowed. 

Brock let his eyes linger a moment before he opened the door for the stairs and started the long descent down. 

•• •• •• ••

“They were heavily guarded.” Brock admitted as Jack’s fingers drifted across the gauze wrapped around his thigh. “And Stark put up a hell of a fight.”

Rumlow had already dug out the bullet but he had a nasty limp. As far as taking down Stark went, it was significant points for Brock.

“Incredible,” Jack nipped at his throat. “You’re a goddamn force to be reckoned with out there.”

“I take my work seriously.” Melting into the warmth of the body behind him seemed like second nature. “Unlike you.”

“I was serious, Brock. I still am goddamn serious. You work for no one and I respect that.” Brock’s leg throbbed as he adjusting his positioning. “I don’t surround myself with weakness. I want my threats to be real.”

“You’re crazy, Jack Rollins.” Brock shook his head. “And I’m still waiting for payment.”

“The transfer went through.”

Brock turned to face him with a grin. 

“I make take cancellations but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay me.” 

Jack laughed in disbelief, reaching out to cup his face. “Let me get this right: I have to pay you for the hit I put on myself, that you didn’t actually do?”

“You don’t have to do anything. But if you don’t, I’ll kill you.” Brock’s smile was all teeth and Jack’s cock hardened against his hip. “Business, Jack.”

“Business.” Jack nodded his head and laid back against the pillows. “I want your mouth around my cock and then we’ll chat.”

“Well then we’re looking an extra half a mil,” Brock replied sweetly. He moved carefully to avoid tearing his stitches as he lowered himself to his stomach. 

The smell of detergent and pheromones swirled around his senses as his nose grazed Jack’s pubic bone. The sheets were tented just under the kempt hair and Brock let his lips slip along the satiny sheets. He felt the heat of Jack’s cock through the fabric and he drew back to watch the fabric draped over the tip grow sheen as fluid beaded to the head. 

“Are you a whore or a hitman?” 

The corners of Brock’s mouth upturned as he kissed the inside of Jack’s thighs. Smooth and unscarred because the artery that ran through this part of him would kill him. 

“Is there a difference?” Brock asked, propping himself up on his uninjured arm to level a look at Jack.

“I suppose not.” Jack reached for the bottle on the bedside table and Brock watched his throat bob as he drank. “That doesn’t feel like a blowjob, Brockie.”

Brock lifted away the sheet, marveling a moment at the turgid flesh exposed to him. Brock’s fingertips traced down the length, skin almost velvety while the flesh beneath it was stiff and unwavering. Jack breathed out a soft moan and Brock took it firmly in hand. 

“I don’t think whores work until they’ve been paid.” 

Jack lifted his head to look down at him. “You’re serious about me paying you for something you didn’t do.”

“You’re starting to sound like me,” Brock mused as he flicked his wrist setting a slow pace. Jack groaned, sounding somewhere between appreciative and frustrated. “I can think of three ways to kill you with my bare hands right now Jack. ‘sides, think of my pain and suffering.”

Jack muttered something under his breath in Russian and grabbed his phone off the table. Brock’s chirped at him and he could see a transfer notification. 

“Half a mil for the blow job.”

“You tryin’ to bleed me dry, Rumlow?”

“You want me to suck you dry, Rollins?” 

Jack had trouble hiding the smile that crept across his face. His phone went off once more and Brock ran the flat of his tongue over the tip of Jack’s cock. Jack hastily shoved his cellphone back onto the table and grabbed a handful of Brock’s hair. 

Brock allowed Jack to angle his head as his hips snapped forward. Everything about it was rough and that was what Brock liked about Jack. He was made up of hard edges in every regard.

After Jack had spilled down his throat, Brock slipped back up to lay beside him. Jack tried to return the gesture but Brock’s shoulder and leg were too distracting to think an orgasm would do anything but cause him to tense up and further tear damaged muscles and tendons. 

Jack offered him a cigarette and Brock waved him off. 

“Sleep,” Jack prodded, fingers skating over the gauze on his shoulder. 

Brock shook his head though he didn’t get up. 

“Not until I’m home.”

Jack trailed his fingers from the bandaged stab wound down along his ribs and side. 

“You said you’d answer my question.”

“Oh fuck off.” Brock huffed out a laugh at the absurdity of what Jack was asking. “Churches don’t enough exits for me, sorry.”

“Not that kind of wedding, you ass. Just…vows. Promises.”

“I can’t promise you anything.” 

Brock felt guilty saying it but that was the truth of it. He was a man of his word but he worked for no one. This was a sure way to put him in a position where business and pleasure would get convoluted and confusing. 

“So promise me nothing. I don’t have much I can promise you.” Jack’s hand slipped up his back and carded through his hair. “But I promise that you, Brock Rumlow, mean more to me than anyone else in this world. So should things go sideways one day, remember it’s not personal.”

Brock smiled but it felt a little forced around the edges. Warmth blossomed in his chest it wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with. It was foolish, a child’s dream. A handsome knight there to sweep Rumlow from his dark ways to a slightly less morbid existence because he wasn’t alone. But when it came down to it, Brock was always alone and that was for the best. Temporary allegiances until the right price came. 

“I promise that you, Jack Rollins, mean more to me than anyone else in this world. When I gotta kill you, know it’s not personal.” 

Jack’s lips pressed against his temple and soon his breathing was deep and regular. 

Brock slipped off the bed, gait wounded and obvious as he went to freshen up and redress in street clothes, leaving Jack to dispose of his ruined suit. He stepped out of the private suite and got stiff nods from the guards loitering around the living space. 

His car was waiting for him and he did his best to let the last ten or so hours vanish from mind which was way easier said than actually fucking done of course. He cared for Jack, that much was true, and when the time came he wouldn’t hesitate or draw it out. At least now they had an understanding of where things lay. 

Perhaps he could be a optimist and assume no one would be stupid enough to put a hit out on Jack Rollins. 

It was a nice thought but Brock Rumlow had gotten to where he was by being pessimistic. It would happen eventually and when it did, at least they had said the words before hand. It wasn’t personal and Jack knew he meant as much as he possibly could to Brock. It wouldn’t save him and he accepted that. Hell, Jack Rollins practically fucking reveled in it. 

But that’s the fuckin’ business, ain’t it baby?


End file.
